


with each sunrise (we start anew)

by red_anemone



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death, Young Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, phoenix Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_anemone/pseuds/red_anemone
Summary: The song of five phoenixes rings through the world on the night of Winter Solstice.Those, who can hear it, shudder.Those, who see future, pray.One of the mates is reborn.The world is once again at a fork point.And where would it turn?No one knows.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 68





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I find it impossible for Vesemir, who in books is referred to as a fencing teacher, to create fully functioning Witchers alone, so here the Pogrom takes place after Geralt, Eskel and Lambert went through the Trials. And I omit the Witcher Tournament, because I never played games and find it unnecessary for this story. It is a mix of books, show, games, mythology and a lot of fantasy to plaster it all together. I dropped books after The Hour of Contempt, so I have only vague understanding of what happened later in series.

Jaskier knows with certainty that Geralt won’t make it through the winter.

He knows the sings well. He dreads seeing them, but, at the same time, he feels relived. No more waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Geralt will die. And then they will start anew.

Still, he grieves.

Geralt, always an early riser, sleeps till noon and is still tired. He eats less. No longer wanders outside. It is when Geralt spends the whole day huddled under blankets, shivering despite Jaskier’s fire warming them, that Jaskier knows that it will not be long.

He is distraught. He does not let Geralt see his tears when he coaxes him to eat, to wake up, to walk a bit.

Geralt knows it too. Last time he is awake, he draws Jaskier to his arms, holds him, whispers, ‘I am so very sorry, I tried to give you more, I really did,’ in his ear and holds him through his weeping. And Jaskier can’t find it in himself to reassure him, to say, ‘It is alright, we will have another life, you are not to blame,’ because right now he _does_ blame Geralt. _Stay, don’t leave me. I love you, don’t go. You would be another person again and it hurts when you can’t remember me, and I will have to win you all over again. Stay._ It is no use. Geralt falls asleep and does not wake.

Winter Solstice draws near and Jaskier knows, that the longest night will take Geralt with her. That day, the shortest day of the year, he spends with Geralt in his arms. He looks just like he looked at his twenty-eighth name day, when Jaskier stopped his time. And yet, his soul is that of an old man, burdened by his unnaturally long life. He is nearly unresponsive. Jaskier runs his hands through silky soft hair, still as black as ever, and croons all lullabies he has learned. His voice breaks more than once. There are tears standing in his eyes that he refuses to allow to fall. Not yet. There will be time, but for now, he holds his dear in his arms and pretends that it is just any other night.

Twilight falls and Geralt’s breathing grows shallow. His heart beats slower. And then, all at once, it stops completely. Jaskier cuddles to the cooling body, seeping in the last dredges of warmth. He arranges it in a parody of an embrace and pretends to be held. _Just one last time._

It is only after Geralt grows stiff with death and so, so cold, that Jaskier weeps. His despair is tangible in the air, his cries echo through the village and surrounding mountains. The dogs and cattle bark in fright, but the world grieves with its child. The wind picks up, the storm breaks. His pain is flaring for all to see. He is alone once again, and he can do nothing but scream his agony to the uncaring night. His grief rolls over the land, moves all that can feel to the same despair. The weak will lose their lives tonight, but he cares not. The chaos of his nature crawls forth, strips off the thin human veneer. He is a phoenix grieving for its mate, what does he care for the mortal world?

His spirit bursts from the confines of his body, burning the hut, burning the carcass that hosted his mate, burning the air itself. His body will endure, he spares it no thought. There is nothing, but his flame. Someone screams, he doesn’t care. All he wants to do, is to be free. To know the world as he knew it that first time he encountered it. With wonder, with curiosity and hope. He screeches his pain with a voice both awful and glorious. And he starts his song.

His brethren join him in his grieving.

They sing through the night, the five phoenixes that always were and always will be. They sing for his loss, the loss his brethren know intimately. They sing for the two that are gone forever more. They sing for the heartache that comes with loving a mortal. And when they sang of all they lost, they weave a tale of what is to come.

The hope they feel. Though mortal, they would always return. Though losing them is agony, the joy of a new meeting will nurse broken hearts. Though they no longer remember, they are always a facet of the spirit they fell for. And who knows, maybe this would be _the_ life? To mate, to sire a child. As long as the world is, they will be. There is so much to try and to have. Though night is long and dark, the sun will rise once again. And as countless times before, they will endure. For they are first children of this world and they love it with all it entails. The good. The bad. And everything in between.

_The song of five phoenixes rings through the world on the night of Winter Solstice._

_Those, who can hear it, shudder._

_Those, who see future, pray._

_One of the mates is reborn._

_The world is once again at a fork point._

_And where would it turn?_

_No one knows._


	2. 1120

Jaskier is travelling south, to meet Raven and Jackie, when he feels his bond to Geralt snap back to life, as strong as ever. Geralt is back, then. He wonders which race he graced with his presence and whether Jaskier needs to change his body for them to match. He hopes anything but an elf. He can’t bear the thought that he will have to postpone his beloved’s revival. Jaskier is curious by nature and the suspense kills him, so he leaves his body on the side of the road and lets the pull guide him to his mate.

He comes to a sunny spacious human-sized hut. The furniture looks well-made and sturdy, if a bit simple. There is a homely feeling about and Jaskier relaxes a bit. This is _home_ , and Jaskier learned that kindness is more often found there than in mere _houses_. With herbs laying on the table farthest from sunlight, some hanging in the darkest corner, it all seems so peaceful. He wishes he could taste the air, he bets it all smells lovely, like an apothecary. And at the table near the open window sits a gorgeous human woman with blood red hair writing in a journal. Her skin is white porcelain, features noble and sharp. Simply stunning! He fervently hopes his dearest takes after her. It’s been a while since Geralt had ginger hair or such noble features. Jaskier would absolutely love it.

He moves closer and the woman startles. She leaps to her feet, one hand covering her bump in a protective gesture, the other raised in defence, magic flickering in her fingertips. Oh. A sorceress. Somehow, he didn’t expect it. Well, that makes it all so much easier! No need to talk through dreams - those are always tricky and unreliable.

‘May the day be blessed, enchantress,’ Jaskier greets her as old custom dictates, bowing and saluting with his hat.

She either doesn’t know how to properly answer or doesn’t care. He bets it’s the latter. Still, after silence drags a bit too long, he remarks, ‘You should at least tell me how I may address you, enchantress. It is, after all, only polite.’ He smirks at her. It is always fun to jester a bit. Humans are so new and thus so fascinating. They came what, some five hundred years ago? No time at all in the grand picture. Him and Geralt had what, only one life as humans? And is was just a bit over 70 years, to boot. It feels like nothing at all.

The red-hair witch completely ignores his question. Which, rude. But also, interesting. She is still braced, her pose battle-ready. She is scared, but when she asks, ‘Who are you?’ she allows no fear to seep through. Good.

‘I am Jaskier, my lady,’ he sees this name rings no recognition. It is alright, he changed it after the whole Shaerrawedd business. And then he kept his head low, so few know now that Jaskier the bard is also the one whose name is still used to frighten children into good behaviour. They named him Titus, for the sheer number he burnt alive. ‘Though you may know me as Third or Titus the Bloody.’ And yes, here it is, the terror. She knows who _exactly_ he is.

He sees her body reflect the dread she feels. She loses some of her composure. There is sweat gathering on her temples, breathes coming faster, and her raised hand is trembling, as is her magic. Not all that strong, then. Well, a medic and a witch is still better than most.

‘And what does a man that renowned want from a medic from a backward village?’ she inquires in a shaky voice.

‘It is your other role I am more interested in, oh fair one. You have something of mine and I dropped by to check just how you two are faring,’ he nods towards her barely noticeable bulge. She pales further and he steps forward to catch her, should she faint. No point in endangering his dearest so. She stumbles away from him in fright. Truly, as if he is so uncouth as to attack a pregnant woman! Sure, he more or less bathed in blood of his enemies, but that was battlefield! He never touched civilians, Geralt would have bitten off his head, if he did. Or run him through with his sword, or something even less pleasant. His dearest is like that, all noble and true. What are they teaching them at that fancy witch school, utter slander?

‘I will not harm you, witch. You bear my mate, after all,’ Jaskier rolls his eyes for emphasis. ‘Give me a name, it is tedious to think of you as “the witch”, witch.’ Aha! Here it is, the false sense of security. And Geralt wonders why Jaskier chose such a ridiculous persona. Fools give people less reasons to be afraid, that’s why. He knows what is happening. She is re-evaluating him, thinking _oh, the rumours must be exaggerated, he is charming and harmless, yada-yada._ They are not, but he is glad it works.

‘You can call me Vissena, good sir,’ she curtsies.

He smiles approvingly. ‘I am glad that our paths have crossed, lady Vissena.’

‘You could drop the “lady” title, sir. I am no witch of Aretuza, but a druid.’ She is soft-spoken and, like all druids, peaceful and kind. Jaskier feels the last bit of tension evaporate. Geralt would be happy and hale with her as his mother. Jaskier is glad. He learned the hard way to regularly check on his mate during childhood, so as not to miss the sings of either beatings or other sorts of abuse. Well, he will come often regardless, but he feels optimistic.

‘Vissena, then. You could call me simply Jaskier. We are, after all, close to a family,’ he says in a light voice. ‘I do apologise for frightening you with my unexpected visit. It is only that I felt the need to check on my dearest, is all. I did not expect you to see me, if that is any consolation.’ She gives no answer, but that is fine. He can carry a conversation singlehandedly. A skill he perfected by his beloved’s oh so talkative side. ‘Do not be worried, you would rarely see me, I usually check up on him through dreams. Less chance he remembers me that way.’ She seems worried by his words, though he can’t understand why. Eh, humans.

‘I would be out of your hair soon, worry not. But seeing as there is no need for subtlety, I have a favour to ask. Do name him Geralt, please. It is a name he chose for himself for the last five lives and I grew attached,’ Jaskier’s smile is full of nostalgia and a bit of heart-break. The loss is still fresh in his mind and his memories are bitter-sweet.

Vissena only nods.

It is enough.

‘We would meet soon, Vissena. I would come for him when he is sixteen or so. Until then I trust you to care for him well,’ he lets his eyes flare with his inner fire. His human voice changes to that of a child of chaos. Innumerable voices blend into one that croaks and whines, howls and groans. ‘Trust me, you do not want to see what I would do, should he come to any harm while in your charge,’ his words have an echo that reverberates through the earths itself. His smile is sharp and full of cruelty. His face is ever-changing between that of a man and a beast. He knows he looks monstrous. She is terrified once more. ‘And I would know should you try anything funny, druid,’ he sing-songs the last world in mockery. He lets his fire come out a bit. Not enough to blind or burn her, just a bit to instill his lesson. ‘Are we clear?’ he asks looking her directly in the eye.

Vissena is so scared she is on the verge of tears and she stutters when she whispers ‘yes’ in a chocked voice. Maybe he overdid it a bit. Oh well, what’s done is done. Better safe than sorry and all that. She will behave herself and he will drop by again when Geralt is eight, just in case she would need a reminder.

Jaskier allows his dramatics to tone down and acts like there was nothing out of the ordinary. He chats up a bit, inquiring after the father, which is not in the picture. That is splendid, less headache for him! When it is clear Vissena is too shaken to hold a discussion, Jaskier bids her farewell and returns to his body in a truly excellent mood. His mate is back and he is to meet with his brethren at the coast. Life has not been this good in some time. He strums his lute as he resumes walking. Future is bright and they are, once again, on a cusp of a wonderful adventure.

_Once the monster is gone, Vissena collapses where she stood. She is wrecked with sobs, as she clutches her middle with utter despair. ‘My baby, my boy, would be that monster’s plaything,’ she thinks with anguish. She weeps for her innocent child that she will raise only to be stolen from her at a tender age of sixteen. She remembers what her teacher told her of the unspeakable atrocities the phoenixes committed, of the cities burnt to ashes along with all_ _population, of men impaled along the roads leading to corpses piled so high they would be mistaken for mountains. She cannot bear to think what that abomination would do with her child. No, no, she would not let any harm come to an innocent soul. She will find a way to save them._

_‘This monster won’t have my baby,’ she vows to herself and to her unborn child._


	3. 1206 (part I)

Geralt’s knows his Ma is strange like he knows sky is blue. There is no Farther, for starters. All other children have ma’s and da’s, but Geralt only ever had Ma. Other people scoff at them for it and spit after his Ma. Geralt knows he will grow up and show them all they can’t treat her like that! Ma is kindness and smiles and hugs and he loves her so-so much. He wants to be big and strong and to protect her always.

They live together outside the village, in the forest, but no beast tries to sneak on them. People say that’s unnatural. But no one is outright mean to them. His Ma is a witch, that’s why. She is also the only other one who can read in the village aside Old Gerek, the alderman, and his son, Olek. She teaches Geralt to read too and he hates it. It’s so-o boring and he wants to run in the trees and to play knights and kings instead, not to sit still and learn his letters. He sneaks out when he can, but Ma always finds him and tells him to ‘come back this instant, young man’ and she looks so disappointed that he can’t help it but obey.

Ma is his whole world, so he tells her everything. About the anthill in the cedar clearing, about wanting to be a knight who protects the weak. He even tells her about the frog he caught with other boys and hid in Old Gretta’s basket while she was washing by the river. Ma listens and hides her smiles, especially when she tries to scold him into apologising to Old Gretta. He doesn’t want to, but Ma says that no true knight would fear to apologise to an old _weak_ woman. So, the next day Geralt goes and says he’s sorry and Old Gretta makes him sweep her yard and that is the end of the story.

There is only one thing he never tells Ma. It is his dreams. He rarely remembers them, but when he does, they are so vivid. Sometimes he is a dragon that soars through the sky. A king leading an army into battle. A knight on a quest. An explorer. He is so _old_ in them. And he always looks different. And the only thing that is constant through them all is the feeling of being _watched_. There is always someone on the edge of his dreams, guiding him, guarding him. He never can quite make them out, but their presence is comfort and love, just like Ma’s is. He knows they are hiding from him, but he’s not afraid. He just wants to _see_. It is after he begs in one of the dreams that they start coming to him as a giant fire bird sometimes. He loves those dreams most of all, though they are the most boring ones. Nothing really happens in them, the bird-person only cuddles him in their wings and sings, and Geralt does nothing but listen. Bo-oring. But also, so nice.

~~~

Spring comes early that year. There is urgency in the air, as if the world is tired of winter and is flat out rushing into a new year, full of energy and renewed strength. Vissena feels that thrumming vitality in every leaf, in the warm wind, in the waking earth - and rejoices. She is invigorated as well, her magic attuned to the nature. She works with gusto, her salves and herbal decoctions stronger than usual and she makes good coin. Enough to last them through the winter, even if they will need to renew roof. She will sew Geralt a new set of clothes, he outgrew the last one already.

In the second week of April a merchant visits their village, and she procures fabric she needs. Luckily for her, the man barters it for a balm from podagra, so she is in high spirits. She hums under her breath as she sets the table, Geralt safely occupied by a wooden dragon he begged her for. He babbles happily, all puppy-eyed wonder at his new toy. He is so sweet, her son. She gently admonished him when he promises he will slay a dragon for her, for dragons are intelligent and rare, and violence is against druid’s way.

Her good mood shatters to dust when Geralt says with no second thought, ‘Not all of them are good. Tiamat was cruel and vicious, and she needed to die so others could live’, though. He says it with all the innocence of a child, no questioning. It is simply a fact he knows. Vissena would agree, but she never told him the story of Tiamat the Terrible, destroyer of kingdoms. And she knows no one at the village has the knowledge, either. It must have been _him_. She suddenly feels cornered, his presence now filling every corner, the very air they breathe. He is always here, just at the edge of her awareness. No number of protective charms could ward them from _him_. Vissena has tried everything she could, but he laughed at her efforts in her nightmares. She knows he comes to Geralt in his dreams. She can feel him, when he does. She can only thank Gods that his visits are infrequent.

Life is so unfair. Her only child, a plaything of a monster far worse than Tiamat ever could hope to be. And she is helpless to protect him. Geralt looks at her when she is silent too long and there is a worried wrinkle in his brows. Her sweet boy, always so concerned for her, her little protector. She smiles at him, distracts him with food and talks about his antics. He readily chatters about his day like she wasn’t with him through all of it. She listens and lets it soothe her frayed nerves. Tonight, she will not allow anything to dim their happiness.

But tomorrow. Tomorrow, she will start searching for a way to rid Geralt of the monster lurking in his dreams.

~~~

Geralt cries when he understands that Ma left him. A bucket is all he has, and the road is empty, and he is scared and hungry. He tries to stop the waterworks, because he is a good boy and good boys don’t cry like girls. He walks at first in a direction he thinks is right, but he is _not sure_. And the bucket is heavy. And it blisters his palms. And when he falls and spills the water and busts his knee, he sits and weeps bitter tears. That’s how Vesemir finds him just after dusk falls.

Vesemir says that he will take Geralt to Kaer Morhen to be a witcher just like him. Geralt comes willingly for what is there to do, but go? At least Vesemir wants him, unlike his Ma. They track a bit further from the road and Vesemir builds a little fire that decades later Geralt, a fully-fledged witcher, will remember with gratitude, for he will know it was lit for his sake. But back then he was just a boy who his mother did not want. Vesemir gives him a strip of dried jerky and a cup of warm broth, and then holds him through the cold of the night.

They come to the Keep close to dusk after a day of trudging up the mountainside. Vesemir carries him through the rough patches, but otherwise Geralt is to walk by himself. He is so tired by the time they are at the gate he is numb with it. His soles are blistered, but he no longer feels any pain, only hot throbbing. The hunger is sharp in his belly, though. He never was so miserable in his life. He hates it here already.

There are nine other boys like him, unwanted and abandoned. Some are even bought, a burden to feed. Some are Child Surprises taken as a payment for life debt. But regardless of how they came to be in the care of Witchers, they are all treated the same. The elder one tries to talk to him that first evening, but he is too drained and too scared to do anything but remain silent. The first night he refuses to talk to them, eats what is given and huddles in the bed they told him would be his. Others leave him be.

The boys are all subdued and just as overworked, and they fall asleep in pairs, hugging for warmth. This high up in mountains nights are cold even in summer. There is only one other boy, with brown hair and warm honey eyes, who sleeps alone. Geralt thinks they are of age. The boy looks at Geralt, chews his lip and visibly thinks. Something in Geralt yearns to get closer to him, to reach out. Others pay the brown-haired boy no attention and it feels wrong. The boy nods to himself and gestures to his bed in invitation. Geralt shakes his head no. Not tonight. He wants to be alone tonight. The boy seems crestfallen but kicks off his boots and lays in bed with no fuss.

Geralt does the same. He is so very tired. Still, the sleep won’t come. The tears do, though. He cries as silently as he can and when there are no more tears, he falls asleep. He wakes up through the night wrecked with shivers. The covers do nothing to keep him warm. Geralt can vaguely make out the brown-haired boy and he is faring as bad as Geralt does. He wants to go to him, but he is so scared. What if the invitation is no longer open? And then he remembers Ma when she told him that knights can’t be cowards, and he feels so _alone_ , he wants to have someone close. So, he takes his sheets with him and comes to the boy, who wakes the moment Geralt drops them on top of him. He looks at Geralt silently, evaluating, and then scoots over a bit to let him climb in. They seal the sides best they can and then press together.

It is only after they are warming up and close to falling asleep when the boys talk in nearly inaudible whispers.

‘I’m Eskel.’

‘Geralt.’

‘Thanks, Geralt.’

‘You too.’

They hug each other and sleep.

_Nanna is old and saw her fair share of stories take place under the crown of her oak tree. So, she pays a human woman with hair bright as fire that comes to sit between her roots and weep no mind. But as the night grows darker and the woman shows no sign of stopping, she becomes antsy. Humans are always so emotional, so tiresome. They are like a flame – bright and fickle. And she hates fire, a natural response all dryads share. Nanna wants the fire woman gone. That is the only reason her roots move and coddle the woman when she weeps ‘I’m sorry, Geralt, I am_ so sorry, _I had_ no choice _’ Nanna firmly tells herself. The faster the woman is calm, the faster she will move on. And if Nanna’s leaves whisper reassurances? No one will ever know._


	4. 1206 (part II)

There is a sense of festivity in the air as Jaskier comes into town. The common folk, usually so burdened by their plight, is buoyant. The market is filled with wares, the merchants for once regarding peasants with civility. Jaskier takes in the atmosphere, the cheerfulness, and brandishes his lute to delight of girls gossiping at the edge of the market, where tents with Seers and more well-off merchants are erected. The music he plays is the local favorite, joyful and full of beat, and so easy to dance to. People give him space and the crowd begins to gather. He lets music pull him, guide him, lets himself be its vessel, its conduct. He is just another instrument and he rejoices in the simplicity of _being_.

He plays a set of songs, all of them upbeat. Today is for levity and he feels it to the fullest. Music is something that will always be his closest friend in a world where he is always on the fringe of existence, always out of the Destiny’s net that encompasses all beings living. So easily overlooked. Always alone. But no matter. Jaskier sings and plays and dances to his heart’s content and allows nothing to distract him from the uncomplicated joy of belonging. As long as the crowd sings along and dances with him, he can pretend he is part of this world.

Once he is finished, he gathers what coin they can spare and makes it to the stands. He orders a mug of ale, just to pretend that he needs it. It’s on the house, he is informed, and he nods his thanks. He will have a roof over his head and a bath tonight and he is in high spirits. Tomorrow the town will hold celebration in name of Melitele and Jaskier will perform again. He can use some coin, but more than that, he wants to celebrate with them. It will be nice, to be included. He will sing with local girls at the river, help them with a tune when they will sing their thanks. He should tidy up a bit. He idly searches the stalls for something worth his attention and when he finds nothing, moves on in search of an inn. He finds the one named Prancing mare that is to his liking and barters for a room with a set of songs. The dinner and bath are to be paid for separately. Good Jaskier needs only bath, not food. Still, maybe he will indulge, it remains to be seen. He goes to his room and cleans up before his evening performance. For this one he chooses mostly local wares, well-known and dearly loved. And he includes some of his own, just because he can. They are old, though, from before humanity, and he wore different name back then, so no one will really _know_ they are his, but it matters not. _He_ knows and that’s enough. And the last one he will play will be Jackie’s. A cheerful love ballad will go splendidly with the mood. Tomorrow people will go visit newlyweds, it is only proper they be reminded of young love. Ah, to be young is a blessing. He is in a lovesick mood, he will seek company for the night of simple pleasure.

Jaskier hums a simple merry tune under his breath as he goes through his ablution. These little pleasures make the wait bearable. And, well, he truly loves the world magic created. So fascinating. Ever-changing and ever-evolving. He is glad that eternity spread ahead of him would be entertaining enough.

He is in good mood when he deigns to come down and order a light dinner. He wants to pretend that he is human and humans eat, so he eats. And then it is time to sing. The phoenix lets a bit of his power seep through. He feels happy and energetic and he wants to share his feelings with them and he _sings_. It drives people to a frenzy, makes them nearly ecstatic. Jaskier keeps it on for a good while until he notices one of the younger girls faint. He drops the intensity a bit. Better let them down gently, an abrupt halt would only harm them. He lets his music become nothing more than a human song sang by a human bard for Jackie’s love song and the crowd gradually calms. Everyone is still in high spirits, a little charmed, but no worse for wear. Jaskier is proud he noticed it in time. There were a few occasions he prefers to forget, when he sang people to their deaths. Not intentionally, mind you! Just got carried away and caught up in the moment. Not tonight, though. Tonight is for levity and mischief, no unnecessary deaths are allowed.

And, the day after tomorrow, he will visit Geralt. It is his sixth birthday and Jaskier wonders which memory he should show him for a gift. Perhaps another one from their times as dragons? He seems to like them quite a bit. Or from his bids at knighthood? There are several to choose from and there were ones worth a ballad or dozen. Or maybe some sort of adventure? Decisions-decisions. Oh well, he will ask Geralt himself.

He catches a couple of matrons measuring him up, feels their interest and winks at all of them. He will decide which one to take with him upstairs later. Or maybe he will convince a couple.

Life was not this good for quite some time.


	5. 1206 (part III)

At the end, Jaskier spends his stay with a widow owning a tailor shop down the street. She is in her late forties and considered well beyond the ripe age. Human men are so strange, for he finds her full of wild passion and motherly care. He showers her in affection for the three days they have. He will be her dream lover, the one that was brief and fleeting, the one she will remember in the quiet evenings spend alone.

On the mid of his last day in town, he bids her goodbye and they part with no heartache. He wanders a bit in melancholy. Celebration comes and goes and Jaskier is once more in-between. On his last eve, he earns what coin there is to earn and waits for the night to fall. He lays alone on the hard bed covered in straw and waits. People settle around him and start to nod off. He lets his awareness drift to that place in-between waking and dreaming worlds. Chaos beats under his borrowed skin. His true nature comes forth.

A bird of prey, a bird of fire, a phoenix spreads his wings in that not-quite-real twilight zone. He feels the heat from his fire spreading and covering the sleeping village, his presence making humans uncomfortable and the animals frantic with fright. The phoenix pays them no mind. He delights in his bond, in the strength of it, the beauty. He urges it to snap him to the other end, to his beloved. And waits. And waits some more. And nothing happens. That is strange, but not _too_ worrisome. He chirrups in a mild amusement. That witch finally managed to find something strong enough to ban him. Took her quite some time, but it was fun to see her try. The phoenix gathers his flames, notches them hotter, _concentrates_ and pulls on the bond. It takes him along.

The usual fast and unnoticeable transition is replaced by a slow and tedious affair. It’s like trudging through the swamp that clings to him in all the worst ways. It’s too hard to be any good sing. Now, he _is_ worried. He pushes his fire hotter, his powers harder and gains a bit. Not enough. The barrier is strong, nothing less than an elven sorcery at its peak. Oh, he could burn through it, he knows it without doubt. But it will be against the agreement. His brethren won’t be pleased if he'll threaten the precarious magical balance for something that's not an _emergency_. And for all that he is barred from his mate, it is nothing that have not happened before and certainly nothing to worry about. Yet. And he feels that his Gwynblaidd is whole and hale, no major threat looming. So, definitely not an emergency.

He circles through the nearest dreams. He’s somewhere in Aedirn, the accent sharp in his inhuman ears. Given he was in Angren, the bond took him North. It tells him nothing. Last he checked, Vissena and Geralt lived in Kaedwen, on the foot of Blue Mountains, so the bond might have been taking him there. Thought it doesn’t feel like it. Still, no harm in checking. He debates for a moment the merit of traveling through the waking realm, but discard the thought. No, better lose a bit of time by traveling through dreams than to alert every single creature that he lost his underage, weak and vulnerable mate. Now, _that_ would be a disaster. He wants to pity those whose dreams he will grace with his presence. He is too strung out to even try masking his nature. Terror like human race knew nothing of he will bring. Some will die, he knows.

There is no pity in the chest of a child of chaos.

The phoenix takes off.


	6. 1206 (part IV)

It takes Jaskier three weeks to find the witch.

He has to stop that first urgent night when he realizes just _how many_ are already dead. Those who know what to look for will notice his frantic fluttering, if he’s not careful enough. No, he needs to take precaution and proceed with subtlety. So, he leaves the town at dawn like he intended, and travels North, not bothering to enter human settlements, coming just close enough to slip into their dreams and no more. And he has to be gentle, less the frenzied trashing of the first night happen again.

He calms somewhat when he realises that there is no way Geralt is with elves: they have no fortresses that strong left in their possession. Still, humans may think phoenixes no more than a myth, but to ensure his mate’s safety he cannot be reckless. Should Elves catch a whiff of this, they might find his darling first and they would be tremendously pleased to have any of their companions to barter with. Jaskier _will not_ be the one to give them such a boost. And for all that he is restless and worried, it is nothing that has not happened before. And should Geralt die while he searches? Well, so be it. He will be back. What is a decade for a phoenix? He will travel some more or slumber at the tomb and visit Vee and Athan. He saw them last time what, some two hundred years ago? A perfect chance to catch up a bit. And, so decided, he calms. He has all the time he needs for subtlety.

After the first fruitless weak Jaskier decides enough is enough. He makes it to Scala, rents a hut from a local landlord for a season and leaves his body there. Now, he can truly search with no need to return every morning and relocate. He spends two weeks lurking in shadows in-between worlds, concealed and unnoticed. There he looks for a trace of a red-haired druid in every dream and memory encountered. He knows the witch is too lovely to be easily forgotten, youthful and bright, she would stand out in the drab crowd. And he is right. He finds her in Ard Carraigh. Every race he encountered always thinks it is harder to find one of them in a faceless mass, but with a phoenix it’s quite the opposite. Where there is chaos, he is strongest. And masses are always so wonderfully chaotic.

The night she walks through the gates is the night he finds her.

Jaskier lurks in the dreams of children as he waits for her to sleep. He is careful, though, not to frighten them. It is easy to play and sing in their sweet and under-developed dreams, still so full of natural chaos. And he always had a soft spot for all things small, weak and sweet. So, it is no feather off his tail to give a girl a dream about a dragon that took her away from cruel and uncaring parents into a world where she would always be happy; to show a boy that he can be a knight that will protect the weak and the innocent; to show a boy, beaten and brutalized by his father that one day he will be just as big and just as strong, but so much kinder… Jaskier waves them dreams that will never come to be, but which would nurse them through the harshest blows.

As the moon reaches the horizon and the dawn is nigh, the witch sleeps at last. Jaskier leaves a sweet child of two to her dreams of pretty colours and descends on the druid. What meager protection she had he shreds with no second thought. The witch, Vissena, the one who he entrusted with his most precious possession, can do nothing to escape now. He knows he needs to calm, lest he kill her prematurely. No, no, he needs answers.

She dreams of a forest that is both angry and caring, of shadows reaching for her, some to hurt, some to sooth, of grass that is turning to barbs to bite into her bare soles and of earth being kind to her. _Oh, but she is torn by her decision._ Then why? Jaskier is so confused. Here she is, a betrayer, weeping from her choises and still so sure she did the right thing. Well, no matter. He starts to circle his prey. He is nothing but a shadow at the edge of her awareness, he is but a phantom. Here and gone. She feels his malice, his bloodlust and she trembles.

Here, in the realm of spirits and thoughts, the phoenix is a master. Her dream is no longer hers. He twists the roots to trip her, the wild to turn cold and biting, the sky loses all vastness and presses on her. The forest now is furious, full of contempt and hatred, trying to trip her, to bind her, to make her fall and break. ‘Death, death, death,’ it chants. The witch starts running. She trips and stumbles, and when a branch snags at her arm, she trashes and breaks free. Ooh, his prey is frantic with fright, too scared to think clearly, but not yet terrified out of her mind. Jaskier turns into wolf. His perspective changes. He is no longer looking from the outskirts. He is part of her dream now.

And she is his. His to hurt, to salvage, _to prey_.


	7. 1206 (part V)

Vissena knows that the monster she fears so, the one she tried desperately to outrun, has caught up with her at last. Her dream loses all haziness and vision-like unclearness, snaps into sharpness that even waking hours fail to bring, all details so minute they overwhelm her. Every leave, every branch, every grain of soil under her feet – it all becomes something _more._ She knows no human could withstand such awareness for long without losing their mind. She hopes she is more than human and that _she will_ be strong enough.

The phoenix, the monster, - Vissena refuses to call it by any name, for it deserves no such courtesy, - comes in a form of a wolf, if such abomination could even be called a _wolf_. It is not the form that is repulsive, it is the innate _wrongness_. Jaws too heavy, form too tall, bulky as no wolf she saw was. It is a rape of nature, its simple elegance twisted and tainted. But what could she expect from this scum, this unfeeling vestige of destruction?

Vissena sneers her contempt.

The wolf prowls around her, panting, dripping saliva, showing its teeth and growling under its breath. Every tree, the earth itself breathed in unison and it unnerved her. Not enough to break her, but it grates on her, frays her nerves. Vissena knows that she must be strong, if she to have any hope to do what is right. And for Geralt? She _will be_ strong enough. She refuses to budge.

When it becomes clear that she will not cower from the pressure alone, the beast halts in front of her, its eyes shining with malice and amusement. And then the wolf is no more and where it was, stands a man. It looks just like any other time they met, human enough to fool her, if she is not vigilant. _‘But no more’_ , she thinks. She knows what that rueful grin and boyish look conceal. And an innocent soul depends on her resolve. She _cannot_ fail.

‘Long time no see, enchantress,’ the phoenix’s smile is all teeth. ‘How have you fared? Was the summer kind to you?’

Vissena refuses to answer.

‘I see. You wish for us to skip all pleasantries? It could be arranged.’ It’s face briefly settles into perfect stillness of a carved statue. ‘Tell me, witch, where is my mate?’ The eyes that looked human enough lose all emotions but the rage. The hellish fire burns in their depth. It promises her pain unimaginable. She knows it with certainty – she is naught but a prey.

Her heart beats like a hummingbird in her chest, her body trembles. Yet Vissena remains silent.

‘No? I _am_ asking you nicely still,’ the smile it sends her is sharper that any blade, ‘Tell me and I will not punish you _too_ severely.’ The tone is another mockery, so cheerful and jovial. It sets her teeth on edge.

Vissena gathers her courage. ‘I’ll tell you nothing.’ She wished to say it calmly, with dignity and assuredness. Instead it came out trembling and barely above a whisper. She cringes inwardly at how _meek_ she sounds already.

The phoenix laughs and laughs, and laughs. ‘It is precious that you think you have what it takes to withstand me.’ It smiles at her as a parent might while scolding an unruly child. ‘I broke thousands of creatures with resolve way stronger than yours, trained and resilient to torture. And yet, in the end, they _all_ broke.’ The creature saunters closer, way too close for her comfort. She casts for her magic and it does _nothing_. No answer, no tingle of her sorcery. Her insides go cold with true, undulated terror. She counted on her powers to protect her from the worst of pain.

The monster notices the shift in her, maybe even knows she tried to call upon magic and failed. There is a knowing glint in its eyes, in the curve of its lips. ‘Oh, dear, it won’t work,’ its voice is terrible with softness and inevitability. ‘Your magic will not answer, not here, in my domain. I have all the time in the world to get an answer I want. And you, my dearest, are completely at my mercy.’ The monster is ever closer, its steps sure and unhurried. ‘Time here flows differently. This night would stretch to eons, if need be. But it won’t have to. Fear and pain unimaginable you would know, enchantress,’ the phoenix leans in closer, its nose running up her throat in a parody of a lover’s caress. She trembles.

‘You _will_ tell me everything. I will make you, this I swear.’ Vissena tries to step back but cannot. Her body is paralyzed with primordial terror, out of her control. Her eyes wet with unshed tears. ‘And believe me, enchantress. I would enjoy. Every. Single. Moment of it,’ the last words it whispers right in her ear, tone low and seductive, full of dark promise, rich with eagerness and _want_.

And Vissena knows that she _will_.


End file.
